


The Blessing of Your Hands

by Shadaras



Series: Author's Favorites [7]
Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Aftercare, Bathing/Washing, Biting, Bondage, Dom/sub, F/F, Marking, Multi, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Non-Sexual Kink, Only One Person Is Wearing Clothes, Other, POV Second Person, Questionably-Romantic Intimacy, Riding Crops, Scratching, Switching, changing relationship dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:35:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22022689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadaras/pseuds/Shadaras
Summary: Tender Sky and ⸢Signet⸣ are close. Their relationship changes over time, as Belgard wakes and Tender takes Anticipation into herself, but the closeness doesn't change; it simply gets layered with more and more complexity.Tonight I'll hold you close, close enough to bruise;Hope a garden grows where we dance this afternoon
Relationships: Belgard/⸢Signet⸣, Belgard/⸢Signet⸣/Tender Sky/Anticipation, Tender Sky/Anticipation, ⸢Signet⸣/Tender Sky
Series: Author's Favorites [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818892
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15
Collections: Holly Poly 2019





	The Blessing of Your Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flowersforgraves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersforgraves/gifts).



> — Frank Ocean, [Wither](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VQKdJlzuzts)

You don’t do this often.

You didn’t used to do this at all, if you’re being honest with yourself; Belgard tended to all these needs with ease and love, and before Belgard you hadn’t even realised this was something you craved, but since Belgard—

Well.

A lot of things have changed since Belgard went dormant.

But the result of one of those things is the way you’re kneeling now for Tender Sky.

This was never something you looked for, and is still something you almost resent needing to ask for. (Your job has always been to take care of others; it is so hard to learn how to take care of yourself.) And yet, here you are: Kneeling in perfect prayer, back straight and hands folded and eyes closed. You have been told to wait, and so you do. You want to ask when Tender will be done. You did ask, when she first told you what to do, and all she did was laugh and say, “Art takes work, ⸢Signet⸣. You know that. It’ll be done when it’s done.”

Then she’d leaned in and kissed your eyelids closed. She’d stroked your hair and murmured, teeth not quite catching on the curve of your ear, “I know that however long I ask you to wait, you will be able to handle it.”

And you breathed out, settling into the quietude of expectation, of acting for another’s pleasure. You let yourself lose track of time, gauging it not by breaths or minutes but by the ache in your legs as you kneel unmoving on a cushion placed beside Tender’s chair.

Eventually Tender stirs, and you bring yourself to attention as she stretches. One of her hands comes to rest on your head, claws casually lacing through your intricate braids, and she says, “You’ve been so good, haven’t you? Waiting, just like I asked.”

You hum agreement and acknowledgement, and Tender laughs. Then she tugs you up by your hair, and you follow, sliding into her lap. It’s warm, and soft, and she envelops you with her arms as you curl towards her, resting your cheek on her forehead. One of her ears brushes against your face, and she kisses your shoulder. “Do you want something specific today? Or do I get to choose?”

“I would like you to choose,” you say, because Tender requires a response but you’re lost in the way her hand feels stroking along the back of your neck and how strong and present she is now that you’re sitting upon her.

Tender smiles. You can feel it against your shoulder. “Let me take care of you,” she says, as she says every time you let her choose. What she means by it is different, day by day, but that’s always what she wants to do. You don’t mind. It’s always something you enjoy. “Come. Let’s go take a bath.”

You nod, and stand, and follow, bare feet silent against Tender’s carpeted floor. Hot water and Tender’s confident hands cleansing you sounds fantastic, now that you’re thinking about it. Tender turns on the water in her deep tub, a luxury she’s both stubborn and proud about maintaining. You never worry about such things; a private shower or the public baths are sufficient for your needs. But there is a difference between that minimalistic need and what Tender is now saying you need.

Tender strips your clothing from you, allowing you to help in only the most minimally necessary way. She is reverent as she kneels to remove your boots, and when she peels of your undergarments she looks up at you, violet eyes wide as she smiles so tenderly that all you can do is think about how well-suited she is to her name. Then, once you are naked in the now-steamy room, she urges you into the water.

It is warm, almost hot, and you sink into it with a sigh. You can hear Tender remove her own clothes before she joins you in the water, and then you lose yourself to her ministrations. She scrubs every inch of your skin, unbraids your hair and washes it, and then sits with you until the water begins to cool. Only then does she tug you back out and dry you off. You let her, just as you let her dress you in a simple robe, and sit in front of her to watch cartoons that Tender thinks of as old and you abstractly remember having seen when they were first produced.

Still, you think, as you lean against Tender’s legs and allow her to rebraid your hair, you certainly feel calmer and more centered than you have in months.

And that is enough for now.

* * *

“You look like shit,” Tender tells you, when she finally makes her way to Belgard after Quire’s Miracle.

You twist just enough in the cradle of Belgard’s silks to see her, cocky and self-assured as ever on the surface, but underneath— “I don’t think things went so well for you either.”

“Yeah, well.” Tender shrugs and glances over at the displays that would, on a ship that wasn’t Divine, perhaps be the dashboard controls. “Do you mind if I sit?”

Belgard thrums assent, and Tender hops up, easy as can be. Then she settles with her knees drawn up to her chest and her chin resting on them, hands loose on her thighs as her tail coils unhappily around her feet. You watch her, unsure, before tilting into a more upright position and saying, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“⸢Signet⸣—” Tender shakes her head, sharp and fast, ears fluttering in the air. Her eyes are narrow, but not in anger; her face is too soft, her lips still downturned. “I am not here for therapy.”

You don’t say anything. The question will linger in the air regardless. Belgard, always good at reading the mood, shifts the lighting in her cabin from the understated mulberry you’d set it to, slowly brightening it and changing the color until it was a warm rose. But she doesn’t say anything, either; you aren’t sure if you wish she would, to help diffuse the tension slowly building in the air, or if you’re grateful that she’s staying out of it except for tightening her silken hold upon you, making sure you remember that regardless of whatever else is happening, you still belong to each other.

Tender sits, ears pinned back and tail twitching, for a long minute before she says, “Do you ever feel like you have too much power?”

You laugh. You can’t help it. It isn’t kind, but you don’t think Tender wants kindness right now, not precisely. “Tender,” you say, meeting her eyes. You don’t know how much authority you can project when you’re wrapped up in Belgard’s cocoon, but you still try. “I was one of the final Excerpts. I may _be_ the final one, now. Is that too much power?”

Finally, Tender’s mouth bends up, as if that were a joke and not an honest question. “I don’t know.”

Belgard speaks, her voice soft and warm. “Do you think I hold too much power, Tender Sky?”

“No,” Tender says, automatic. Then she looks down at her hands, spreads them wide. “But there’s so much I can do that nobody else can.”

“Humanity is vast, Tender.” Belgard’s voice sweeps over you both, gentle and inevitable as the tide. “You cannot be the only one with your power, just as ⸢Signet⸣ is not alone in hers, nor am I in mine. Nonetheless, it can be lonely when you are the only one like you.”

You shift in Belgard’s silks, wrapping your hands around strands in something that approximated a hug; pressure given and received in equal measure. “Let us be together,” you say to Tender, whose eyes are wide and round and vulnerable and you _ache_ — But this is not the time for such things. “Come, join me.”

Tender stands, and you don’t think she quite notices how the air beneath her feet is too solid for a moment as she leaps over and Belgard catches her. Belgard hums, vibrating the air in sound and the silks in a gentle wave as she weaves you together, safe in her arms.

* * *

Your departure from Altar is frigid. You leave the camp in silence. You return to the shuttle in silence. You watch Tender’s face as her eyes unfocus, and you feel your bitterness begin to twine with sympathy. She withheld information from you, important information, but—

Whatever Anticipation is doing within her, it’s nothing like your bond with Belgard. It’s also not the same as when Tender uses her own power; you’ve seen her drift into the Mirage and enMesh herself with it, and she always maintains a particular presence: It’s clear that she can come back whenever she wishes, and she’s aware enough to respond to external stimuli. Now, under Anticipation’s influence, you guide her around uneven terrain and she doesn’t seem to notice your hand on her arm. She stumbled the first time the path turned to stairs while her eyes glazed, and you caught her before she could fall. She would never have done that, before.

You look up to the sky, and you reach out with your heart to the only person you think could understand. _Belgard?_

She answers with a calm pulse, a query, and you look at Tender and let every single thought and feeling you have about her and this situation flood you. Normally you would wait until you returned to Belgard, or perhaps let her pull you into her embrace, but you don’t want to bring Tender into her heart right now. You don’t want to give Anticipation that association. You don’t want to share, right now, either. 

Belgard hums in your mind as she takes in the information, letting it join everything else in her long store of knowledge. But all she can tell you in return is, _This is new_. You feel her interest, and her worry, and you let out a long sigh to avoid the tears threatening to form in your eyes. This isn’t the time for tears, no matter how needful they may become. Right now you need to get back to the port, and from there back to _The World Without End_ , and sometime during that journey, maybe you can deal with this.

You came to Altar on a tiny shuttle that reminded you of the old days with the Beloved, and you’ll return on it before releasing it back into the rental fleet. It’s fine. Either of you can pilot it, and you can make sure Tender doesn’t lose herself so much she’ll starve. You can talk to her about what it means to be an Excerpt, and help her find a passage for her name. You smile at the thought, and then the expression fades as an uneasy thought roils in your stomach: What if she didn’t take one?

Your hand tightens on Tender’s elbow, and she looks at you, eyes almost clear. “Are you alright?”

You release her, and she chases your hand with her own. “Hey. ⸢Signet⸣. Talk to me.”

“You were gone,” you say, which isn’t an answer. The sky is soft, and you focus on the clouds and contrails crowning the skyport. “What is it like to have Anticipation in your head?”

Tender grimaces, and folds her arms tight against her chest. You watch with your peripheral vision as she twitches, and starts and stops several times before she says, “It’s not what I expected.”

“Were you expecting another Chthonic?” You don’t try to keep the bite out of your words. Maybe you should, but you need some kind of release for tension.

“I was _expecting_ nothing.” Tender’s tail puffs, and she scowls at you. “Honestly, ⸢Signet⸣. The sheer idea that a Divine can live in someone’s _head_ is fucking _weird_ and I don’t know what I _could_ have expected.”

And there it is. You turn in the middle of the cobblestone path, alone in the midst of mountains no longer strung with thread, and you grab Tender’s shoulders tight. “I don’t want Anticipation to overwhelm you.”

Tender’s fangs flashed bright contrast to the hollow laugh, almost a sob, that rang out from her chest. “⸢Signet⸣—”

“It should be a relationship.”

“It will be.”

You don’t say anything, but your throat tightens.

Whatever Tender sees on your face causes her to frown and reach out to touch your face, cradling it in her hands. “Hey, ⸢Signet⸣. I can take care of myself.”

“I know.” You close your eyes and feel the warmth and softness of Tender’s touch and the faint pressure of tears starting to roll down your cheeks. “But I think Anticipation is going to do her best to take care of you too.”

Tender brushes away your tears with her thumbs, voice still very gentle. “Belgard takes care of you.”

“She does.” You can feel the pulse of her attention and her worry for you in the hollow of your ribs. “I hope it will be the same for you.”

Tender wraps you up in a hug and kisses your forehead. “Just give it time,” she says. “I’m sure it will.”

* * *

“I want you to hit me.”

You don’t look up from your book. “Tender, is this really the time?”

“I need—” Tender breaks off in a hiss, and you glance up, one finger tapping the screen to save your place. She’s flustered, and her fur is standing on end, and her eyes are bloodshot. You frown, and Tender finishes her sentence: “I need you to grant me the grace of oblivion, ⸢Signet⸣. _Please._ ”

You let out your breath, not wanting to admit how deeply that stirs you. “You trust me for this?”

Tender’s hands clench into fists. “ _Yes_ ,” she bites out, fangs flashing in the air as her tail lashes behind her, all her energy redirecting from anxiety into desire for a fight. “Fucking— ⸢Signet⸣, of _course_ I do.”

“You could have fooled me,” you say, and from Tender’s glare it comes off as carelessly as you’d hoped. And yet. You stand, placing your tablet aside, and reach out a hand to Tender. “This is not the place for such an act.”

Tender glances around the empty bunkroom of _The World Without End_ and doesn’t touch you. “Why not? Don’t want to disturb your roommate? Oh, wait—” she snorts and kicks the bunk that had once been Grand Magnificent’s. “He’s not here anymore.”

“Because we are Excerpts, and this is not wholly about us.” Your hand remains steady in the air between you, and you watch, unblinking, as Tender processes that. She scowls at you, and then takes your hand. You close your fingers around her wrist before she has a chance to pull away and murmur Belgard’s true name, that which you hold closest to your heart, and wait for her to pull the both of you—and Tender’s newest, closest companion—into her center.

When you rematerialise, Belgard is already lit dawn-bright and your pilot’s harness (inactive, which is a blessing) is hanging in the center of the space. Tender’s eyes are still fixed on yours, still glassy and red, and you step forward before she—or Anticipation—have time to react. “In,” you say, and push her backwards towards the harness.

Tender’s lips lift in a momentary snarl, but then she looks back and at the sight of the plain black straps you feel the tension release. “Oh,” she says, and you catch something that might have been another word as she stops resisting momentarily, her focus inward. You suspect you know something of what’s happening inside her magnificent brain, but you also really don’t want to know. Instead, you focus on the specific practicalities of strapping Tender in.

The harness isn’t meant for this. It’s not meant for Tender, whose body is a very different shape from yours, though it’s built to accommodate any humanoid being. It’s not meant for restraint, but Belgard helpfully gives you more ties—these in a pastel rainbow of color—once Tender’s body is locked into the main supports. You use those to bind her arms at the wrist and her legs at the ankle, tying them firmly to the harness’ rings.

Tender stirs as you tie the last knot, eyes flashing open and body twisting uselessly in midair. She’s gorgeous, of course she is; she’s so firmly present in her body and knows exactly how to use it to her advantage. So watching her squirm—you feel it, satisfaction sliding across your spine, heat rising in the palms of your hands as you imagine what you’re going to do to her. But for now, there’s only one question that matters:

“Tender,” you say, drawing her attention with all the command you have learned. “Clothes on or off?”

She blinks at you, as if this is an incomprehensible thing to ask. It might be, if Anticipation is drawing as much of her attention as you suspect. Then her eyes flicker closed and her clothes disappear, leaving her nude. Your breath stutters; you’d expected this to be her choice, but you’d expected it to be given in words, not in instant action. You aren’t complaining, though; her dark skin is lovely, and the softness of her body is more tantalizing when uncovered, and the contrast of her augmented legs (bright silver on brown) shines all the more brightly this way.

You stroke the join of metal and flesh, and feel Tender shudder against the restraints. Slowly, carefully, you walk around her, brushing against Tender far too lightly. She hates it when you do this, but you want her to _pay attention_ , and teasing her is much more effective than simply giving her what she wants. Besides, you want her to _beg_ , to make up for the way she asked as if receiving this blessing from your hands was a given, a fundamental truth of her world.

(You’ll get there. You do love the way it feels to hit her, the way her body ripples out from the impact and the way blood rushes to the surface, hot and dark-flushed on her skin. The sound is sweet to your ears, sharp in contrast to the throaty moans Tender makes. You want it just as much as she does; you just have more patience and better control.)

“⸢Signet⸣—”

You pause behind Tender, hand resting on the base of her tail, allowing it to twist around your arm and brush your face. 

“Fucking _touch me_ , you asshole.” Tender’s trying to squirm around to face you, but Belgard has her anchored firmly. You can feel Belgard’s attention has fractured, and a large portion of it is given to you. That, too, is a beautiful rush, warmth sinking into your bones. Belgard will ensure that no matter what Anticipation eventually does, you will remain safe and Tender will remain whole.

You squeeze Tender’s tail, letting your nails dig into the sensitive skin just above it. Tender cries out, high in startlement, and then starts babbling: “Yes, ⸢Signet⸣, this is why I came to you, you understand, I just want— I need—”

“What do you need?” you prompt, voice still cool and controlled. Pleasure is heavy in your gut, and you let your fingernails trail against Tender’s skin as you walk around to face her. They dig into her hip when she falls silent at the sight of you. “Tell me, Tender, exactly what you _need_ from me.”

Tender’s eyes fix on yours, lucid and wide and dilated until the pupils were round despite the brightness of the room. “Grant me oblivion,” she breathes, as her body shudders again with something you can’t see.

You click your teeth together once and then slap her. Her attention should be on _you_ , not on Anticipation. She’s held above the ground, and she’s not short, but neither are you. Your arm is more than long enough for this, for the resounding echo of flesh against flesh. Her jaw snaps closed from the force of your blow, but you don’t care. There’s a little blood on her lips now; her teeth caught and tore. But her eyes are fixed on you again, and you can smell her pleasure.

“That,” she says, and then blinks, recenters, and starts again: “I want you to be the only thing in the world, ⸢Signet⸣. I need to sacrifice myself to you in body and mind until there is nothing left.”

“There will always be something left,” you say, but your fingers tangle in her hair, yank to force her to meet your eyes still clear-headed. You touch her lips with your fingers, smear the blood across her cheek. “You ceded the right to be the only one who owns your mind.”

“I will give you all I have, if you only—” she tries to reach for you and hisses as the ties stay firm. “Please, ⸢Signet⸣. I need you. I need to know that this body is still mine and I can still give it as I wish.”

You look at her, shaking in Belgard’s restraints, and you feel the soft frisson of Belgard’s attention across your own skin. Belgard whispers, for your ears alone, _Let me sting her,_ and you laugh.

“Yes,” you say to them both, and you release Tender’s hair. She whines for a moment at the sudden loss of pressure, and then you hear the buzz of Belgard’s electricity running down the hidden wires in the restraints. You can see the moment Tender feels it: Her hair raises up, and her skin is covered with goosebumps, and she starts twisting in the restraints. You stand back and watch the way she moves. It’s not a dancer’s grace; it’s something far less intentional than that. But Tender’s body is wholly her own, fluid and strong and connected, and wholly powerless in the face of Belgard’s ministrations.

Tender’s whining, a high sound you don’t think she’s intenting to make. It rises from the back of her throat, a keening that is almost crying, and before she can break you step forward and drag your nails sharply down her sides, relishing the way her flesh gives under your hands. Many people make the mistake of thinking Tender soft simply because of the fat that covers her. Those people don’t look closely enough to see the muscle, let alone get close enough to _feel_ it tense and hard beneath their hands.

Red lines follow your nails, and Tender screams. The sound echoes in Belgard’s cockpit, and you sigh in pleasure, pressing a kiss to her stomach. It’s warm, and you leave your face there for a moment before biting, pulling Tender’s flesh with your teeth and _feeling_ the groan you tear out of her. It’s hot and low and almost a growl, and you clench your fingers into her, twisting her skin in your grip as you bite, and bite, and bite again. Distantly, you hear her scream, and you feel Belgard’s unwavering attention ensuring that you won’t go too far, so you let yourself go.

You work your way to her back. There, you give one last bite to her hip, savoring the sweat already gathering on her skin, before you back up. You wait, counting to ten, for her breathing to settle, for her body to start to sag instead of squirm, and then you slash your fingers down her back. She shouts, voice ragged, ears pinned back, and her tail thrashes. You catch it in one hand to keep it from bruising you, and silently ask Belgard to lower Tender until you can reach her shoulders with your mouth.

One hand holds Tender’s tail safely out of the way. The other gathers as much of the coils of her hair as you can and shoves it out of the way. Then you bite her, teeth digging into the join of her neck and shoulder, and suck a bruise into being. You keep your mouth tight on her as you circle your tongue on the oversensitive skin and feel her shivering whine through all her body and all of yours. You pull away before you can do something you regret and say, “A moment.”

Belgard knows what you want even before you ask. The faux-leather crop is already waiting for your hand, and you swish it through the air a few times as you walk back to Tender. Her feet are resting on the ground now, though her arms are still stretched above her head. Both are still solidly secured. Her tail rests, twitching, on the floor, and her head sags down. You can see her body heave as she breathes, harsh gasping breaths. There are powder-blue threads woven into her hair that weren't there before, but Anticipation doesn't seem to be doing anything other than being visible. Being present.

You watch those threads twine for a moment, then give your attention back to Tender and let the crop slap into your hand. The jerk as Tender realises what you’re holding—and that she can’t see you—is viciously satisfying, a lightning rush straight through your core. You let her sit in that feeling for a moment, stretching it out, before you step behind her. “I will not hit your tail intentionally,” you tell her, very matter-of-fact, and her ears flicker around to listen. “But if you put it in my way, I may not be able to prevent it. Do you understand.”

“Yes, Excerpt.” Tender’s tail coils around her left leg. Another of Anticipation's threads wraps around it, gentle, promising it will stay put, and you see Tender shudder at the bond. “I understand.”

“Good.” You stroke her back once, and she arches into your hand. “I want you to count silently. Whenever I stop, tell me the count. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Excerpt,” Tender says again, her voice soft.

You keep your own count as you strike her. You start butterfly-soft, almost stroking her with the crop. It takes a full minute before Tender’s whines progress from quiet vocalization to, “ _Please_ , Excerpt, I need it! Please _hit me_ , Excerpt! I want it, I need it, please!”

You’re smiling, a baring of teeth that are no longer predatory, but human instincts are old and do not forget. You let her beg for another ten gentle taps on her ass before you let your strength go. This time the crisp impact rings through the room and Tender’s voice cuts off in the middle of another _Please_ , replaced by a gasp. As you pull the crop back, there’s a brilliant imprint of its surface glowing bruise-dark.

“How many?” you ask into the silence.

It takes Tender seventeen seconds to say, “Thirty-seven,” but she’s right.

You kiss the bruising flesh at the top curve of her ass and say, “Good.”

She sighs pleasure, and you begin mercilessly and systematically covering her back and ass and thighs in strikes. You don’t layer them, not yet; that will come after, as the first aches begin to fade. It’s beautiful, watching the way blood rushes into her skin, and hypnotic to hear the hum of the crop and its bright slap followed by Tender’s gasps and moans. You touch her skin with your fingers sometimes, breaking the pattern to caress or scratch as the mood takes you, feeling the warmth and the way Tender arches into your touch as soon as you give it to her, no matter what form the touch comes in.

You can smell her arousal thick on the air, and feel your own, but that’s not the point. It’s never been the point, between you. That, anyone can give; this is something you keep sweet and private. You cleanse her and give absolution, and she has done the same for you. There is a meditation here, and Belgard’s watchful presence allows you to both fall deeper than you otherwise would into the glory of pain interwoven with pleasure. 

When you finally let the crop fall to the ground, Tender whispers, “Eighty-nine.”

You laugh, and wrap your arms around her. “You’re so good at that,” you tell her, because she is; even before Anticipation, she was good at keeping the count. It’s one of the reasons why you understand how much Anticipation likes her. Internally, you ask Belgard to release the tension on the restraints, and you take Tender’s weight. She sags into your body, but you take her weight easily; she is large, but you are strong, and she has never been as heavy as people think. Slowly, you sink to the ground, allowing Tender to curl into your chest as you do so. The ground of Belgard’s cockpit isn’t particularly soft, but—

Tender yawns, and opens her eyes with a frown. “Cold,” she says, and then her eyes haze over for a moment. When they clear, she's no longer in Belgard's restraints and you’re in a pillow nest and wrapped in a fleece blanket patterned with stars. You don’t twitch. You trained yourself out of twitching when Tender reveals the vastness of her powers and how much she can influence even here in your sanctum, in Belgard’s heart.

So instead you kiss her temple and let her nuzzle closer in. There is no sign of Anticipation shining on her now, though you aren't sure when Anticipation withdrew. But she didn't interfere with what was between you, and even helped in her own way, so you let the thought slide away, something to consider when not flooded with endorphins and oxytocin. “You’re brilliant,” you murmur, and gently stroke Tender's back. She sighs and shivers closer as you brush over marks you know will bruise, but you know her pleasure. It is in the pain, yes, but it is equally much in the tenderness after from which she now takes her name.

She pats sleepily at your cheek, claws grazing you because she’s too tired to control them properly, but not breaking your skin. She smiles up at you and says, “Thank you.”

You catch her hand and kiss her palm. She laughs, and you smile fondly at her. “Do you feel better?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

“Mhmm.” Tender’s eyes open briefly to focus on you. “Stop thinking so much and cuddle me.”

It’s an order, and while sometimes you would fight that, right now isn’t the time. Not when Tender is almost liquid in your arms, loose and entangled. Anticipation traces the welts you etched into her body, a pale false echo, and you let your fingers run alongside the threads; Tender curls closer, head heavy on your chest. Anticipation settles and stills too, and you do your best to relax into the warmth as well. You wouldn’t mind if this became a regular occurrence, if this was Tender’s favored way of sinking into her body and stalling processing for a time, but—

 _Hush_ , Belgard tells you, laughing herself. _I’ll watch over you_.

You close your eyes and focus, instead, on the slow and regular way Tender’s chest rises and falls with her breath, and her quiet heartbeat, and the trust she shows in falling asleep with you even now. You soften, and breathe, and find yourself ever so slowly dropping into sleep as well.


End file.
